by Jack Barnao
"I have some skills that could be useful."
He translated this and the second heavy nodded slightly. The other two scowled and suddenly one of them was talking, pouring out a torrent of anger. Not that his tone was any guide. Italians can sound angry when they're talking about the weather, hot Latin passion, I guess. Only this guy was for real. I imagined he was telling the others that I was a big useless WASP twit not worthy of unlatching his Gucci bootstraps. When he finished both the heavies were grinning and I guessed what was coming.
One of them spoke to him and he stood up, looking grim.
"If you've told the pretty little boy to try me out, tell him not to, because I'll hurt him," I said.
The oldest one said, "You talk a lot."
The kid stood up. He came around the table slowly and I stood up to wait for him. Maybe they expected me to pick up a chair but I didn't. I just held my coffee cup, as if I'd been interrupted in the middle of enjoying my espresso. He was eight feet away when he drew his knife and flicked out the blade.
I slammed the coffee cup into his face and he hesitated a half second to shield his eyes. In that time I had reached him, grabbed his wrist and pulled him over my outstretched thigh. He sailed away behind me and slammed upside down against the wall. He crashed down onto his head and lay still. The second gunnie reached for his gun but I had mine in my hand in a moment and he pulled his hands away, holding them half up in surrender. The second oldest hood was watching me, open-mouthed. He had his coffee cup in his hand and I fired once, shattering it in his fingers.
He swore and pulled back. I stuck my gun back in the holster and turned to the English speaker. "Don't jerk me around anymore, signor, I'm good at what I do." I stooped and picked up my own coffee cup from the carpet.
Carla was crouched over the man on the floor. He was out past cold, his eyes open. "You've killed him," she said.
"I've winded him, and made him feel foolish. That's all. Get me some more coffee." It wasn't fair of me but it was the right thing to do then. The atmosphere was as butch as a wrestler's locker room. I held the cup out towards her and she took it and went to the espresso machine, not speaking. I made a note of that. I owed her one for this.
I bent and checked the guy on the floor. His eyes fluttered and he focused on me. I gave him thirty seconds then stuck out my hand. He took it, reluctantly, and I helped him up. I sat him in a chair and told the English speaker, "Tell him, please, that I bear him no ill will, he was doing his job." It's easy to be magnanimous when you're holding all the aces.
The boss spoke to him and he nodded. I picked up the man's knife, folded it shut and handed it to him. He disappeared it into his pants pocket and tried a faint smile. I slapped him lightly on the shoulder and sat down.
Carla put more coffee in front of me and I thanked her politely and sipped. "Right," I said to the boss. "Now that you've tested me, can I come with you?"
He took out a cigar and lit it carefully. "Sì," he said at last. "Sì, we have work for a man like you, Signor Locke."
He got up then and we all stood up respectfully. I didn't begrudge it. Respect never hurts, especially to a man who can order you shot if he doesn't like you. He and the other older man left the room and the rest of us sat down again. Carla spoke to me. "I told them you were good."
"It's my only trick." I beamed at her. "Sorry about the coffee, it was necessary at the moment."
"Forget it, I know these people better than you ever will. It was the right thing to do," she said, and added, "but don't try it again."
"Ma'am, I am a pussycat around bright women," I told her and she laughed.
"Now you're catching on," she said.
She spoke to the others in Italian and one of them left the room. "We'll have to wait a while. I've sent Giacomo for some cards," she explained.
"Good idea," I said. I didn't think so. Long years in boring English officers' messes has cured me of card playing forever but I needed to make nice for a while, cards would help. It might take the bastards' minds off trying other games on me, like the old knife in the back trick. This way I could keep my eyes on them. I sat back and waited until Giacomo returned with a deck of cards.
I picked myself a new chair, with its back to the wall, and let them teach me their card game. It was a form of blackjack called sette-mezzo, seven and a half. They played with a cut down deck, only face cards and ace through seven. It's an easy game and I'm no dummy but I was eighty-two thousand lire in the hole by the time the younger of the two heavies came back into the room.
The others stood up as he spoke rapidly in Italian. Then the men nodded and Carla turned to me. "There is news. The boy has been located. We will go and get him."
"Why not call in the police?" I asked her. It's what any North American would have done but she greeted the idea with a sneer.
"The police would take all the credit and Mr. Ridley wouldn't know how hard we had worked on his behalf," she said.
"Okay, so what happens now?"
"Now we wait until dark and then go and get him."
"Just like that?" I mocked her.
"It may be more difficult than that, but you will have a chance to show how good you really are, Mr. Locke," she promised. Then she laughed, a nasty bray, like a tenor sax vibrato. "If you're good enough," she said. "Because the people who have him are very good indeed."
Chapter 12
My gut did its customary flip-flop at the thought of solid risk. It's always that way, when you get briefed on the operation while you're snug and warm and miles back from the front line. All the men I served with were the same. You react by making jokes or falling silent but your stomach is contracting against the slam of imaginary bullets and your heart is racing. Later, when the chips are down and you're fighting automatically, the way you've been trained to fight, the fear goes away, but the briefing always chills you. This one was worse than usual. I'd be going in with a couple of play-acting amateurs instead of a squad of men trained as well as I was.
But you don't let it show. You get on with your job. Mine was taking care of the Ridley family so I said, "Let me phone Mrs. Ridley. She's worrying about the boy," but Carla vetoed that one.
"She can do the 'my hero' number when you take the kid back," she said and laughed. "She's quite a looker, did you get lucky?"
I looked at her as she stood there, safe behind the twin fences of her beauty and the protection of her scumbag boyfriend and I snapped back, "Did anyone ever tell you you're a class act?" She opened her mouth to answer but I cut her off. "If they did they were lying."
She took it coldly but calmly. "Brave talk, Locke. Remember, I'm your ticket to the kid. Any more crap and I'll throw you to the wolves."
She was right, she could have done it so I said nothing. The others were watching her in polite astonishment. I guess she was always courteous around them. As Scavuzzo's mistress she could afford to be gracious to the poor people. This snarling was out of character. Giacomo, the man I'd decked, looked at me carefully. Maybe he assumed there was something between Carla and me. It's the first assumption any guy would make, especially in Italy. I wondered if his suspicions would be reported back to Scavuzzo, and if so, how it would affect Carla's tenure. Ah well, that was her problem, if her body needed guarding, she could pay me to do it.
Since there was nothing to do but wait we were fed. One of the young guys went out and came back with bread and olives and prosciutto and a bottle of wine. The food was good but I stayed away from the wine. If the competition was as sharp as we figured I didn't want to be sleepy come nightfall.
Afterwards we sat in a beautiful room among lovely pictures and antiques and played their dumb card game until it got dark outside. Carla drew the drapes and put the lights on. Then the old guy came back in. He beckoned to me and I went out after him, down the hallway and back to a big comfortable den with heavy furniture. He led me in and shut the door behind us.
"My friend is going to instruct the others. I wanted to speak to y
ou," he said. He was smoking a thin black cigar that smelt like a burning barbershop.
"You've got two different plans, one for them, one for me?" It sounded like a setup and all my receptors were tingling. I was here to get Herbie back, not to wind up dead in some crummy scheme.
"It is the same plan, in two different parts," he said easily. He spat out a shred of tobacco, then put his cigar back in his mouth and waved towards the couch. "Sit down."
I sat and he sat behind his desk. "The boy is held by a man called Mazzerini, not by him, of course, by his men, his soldati. They are in a warehouse."
"Is it empty?" I've done enough house-to-house searches in Ulster to know the chances of getting killed in a building full of hiding places among piled crates.
"Probably not," he said. "But we think that the boy is in the cellar. There are no windows, nobody could hear him if he shouted, it is the best place for him."
I thought of Herbie, lying in the dark, wondering how the police were ever going to find him. It didn't sit well. "How many soldati?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Four, five maybe. We have no way of telling."
It still didn't smell right, so I pushed him. "How can you be sure that the boy's there?"
He took his cigar out of his mouth and stared at me. I guess he didn't get asked many questions. "You worry a lot," he said.
"I've been in a lot of worrying situations, signor. I've found it pays to be careful. How did you get the information?"
"One of the men in the warehouse talks to me. He called after he had finished his work. He says they drove in with the car and the boy was in it. They took him to the back office. The cellar is underneath."
"Did he get a look at the boy?"
"He says the boy walked to the office. He was afraid but he was not hurt."
"So what's your plan, and what are the two parts?"
Now he grinned, yellow teeth clenched on the cigar. "Can you keep your mouth shut and listen good?" he asked.
"Right to the end."
"Okay." He set the cigar down in the heavy ashtray and started talking business, looking at me the whole time without blinking.
The plan was straightforward. Carla would drive up to the front of the warehouse and make a fuss. She would have some story about being promised delivery of a parcel and its not having arrived. She would be wearing something delicious and most of the boys in the band would probably crowd to the front to check the view. If she could convince them to open the door, one of the soldiers I'd been playing cards with would rush in with a sawed-off shotgun and take charge. Meanwhile the other guy and I would be on the roof, breaking in through the skylight. We would start our entry as soon as we heard Carla laying down the law outside.
"And you think they'll believe some woman is coming after a parcel at that time of night?"
He shrugged. "The signora is rich. Rich people get what they want in Italy. The men will argue but they will listen."
He could be right, I thought. If they were dedicated socialists they would be glad of the chance to swear at a rich bitch. If they weren't, she might con them into trying to find the package. Either way they would open the door.
"That might get the door open, but it still won't work."
"What makes you say that?" He blew smoke and looked bored. He gave the orders, he didn't listen to suggestions.
"You need more men. Eight would be ideal. Two on the roof like you said, three front, three back. You blow the doors and pour in."
He snorted. "Blow the doors. An' I suppose the people on the street don't hear? They don't call the polizia? They don't look, see what's 'appening?"
He had a point there. This was my first nonmilitary expedition. We didn't have any authority to go into that building. Unless we were in and out in seconds we'd be in a gunfight with the polizia, probably the Carabinieri, with the nubby little grease guns they parade around with in the airports. I had no choice. I did it their way, even if their way was a Chinese fire drill, or I didn't do it at all.
I didn't let him off the hook too easily. I took him through it a couple of times and it always came up the same. It wasn't much of a plot but it was complete, as far as it went. And then I asked him my own questions. "Okay, what do we do with the guys inside? Are you taking handcuffs or tape to tie up your prisoners?"
His face was like a rock. "We do not take prisoners."
"Then you can count me out. I didn't come to Florence to shoot a lot of Italian fish in a barrel."
He struggled with that one, spluttering angrily. "Fish in a barrel? You mean you will not shoot these men who have taken the boy and killed other men?"
"Not in my job description," I told him and stood up. "Either you order something to secure prisoners or I take you with me to the police." I stood up and put my hands on my hips, flopping the jacket open so he could see my gun.
He looked at it, pursing his lips angrily, then waved one hand. "All right. We got tape. You take tape."
I would have liked better equipment than he'd suggested. The tape was only part of it. I would have liked the stun grenades we'd used on the Iranian embassy in London. Drop a couple of them into the warehouse and you could walk in with no opposition. But I doubted that he could have got them so I called it quits and nodded. "In that case, I'm ready when you are."
"Good." He stood up too and stretched out his hand. I shook it and he said, "Buona fortuna." I'd have believed him a little better if he had managed to avoid that snaky grin of his, but what the hell, this plan made more sense than sitting around in the Hotel Rega, waiting for the phone to ring. What other choice did I have?
I went back to the sitting room. The two heavies were cleaning their guns. One had a Beretta, the other a U.S. Army Colt .45. Useful if we had to hit the wall of the warehouse from inside.
I took out my own piece and borrowed their gear, cleaning out the smoky barrel and oiling the mechanism properly. It was a newish gun and had been looked after. I wiped it dry and put it back in my holster, remembering that the load was short one round. I'd had a full magazine plus one up the spout. Now there were only seven rounds left. It should be enough. If it wasn't, I was in deep trouble.
The evenings in Florence are as noisy as the days. People don't finish work until seven or eight and then they head out for dinner around nine. Even the quiet street we were on was rattling with chatter and the endless popping of Vespas and little cars until ten o'clock. Then we moved.
The two hoods split up. Giacomo dropped the sawed-off shotgun in a plastic bag and got into the tiny rear seat of Carla's Mercedes. Savario, the other gunnie, carried a roll of heavy strapping tape and a coil of rope in another plastic shopping bag. He came with me in a Fiat. The only extra equipment I'd been given was a flashlight. That and my Walther would have to take care of me.
Savario spoke no English but Carla had gone over the plan for us. If she was angry at me she was too professional to let it show. The way she explained it we would climb onto the roof of the place next door. It was higher than the warehouse and we would drop onto the roof then down through the skylight on our handy-dandy Alpine rope. I would go first and make for the ground floor back. Savario would follow.
The plan had more holes than a Swiss cheese but I figured to be able to hook Herbie out of his cave singlehanded, once I was inside. Savario could follow and tape up the casualties. The biggest anxiety I had was that Giacomo would get in the front door with his shotgun and blast me. He played in a rough league and I had made him look small. It depended on how much value his boss put on my hide. Maybe it was enough to keep Giacomo's finger off that trigger.
The warehouse was on the edge of town, about a mile from the place where Herbie had been snatched. If Capelli had been telling the truth about roadblocks they must have been set up farther out, where the streets turned back into highways. We saw a few cops on the street but no other signs of official action.
Savario was a good wheelman. He drove past the place at the same speed as everything else that
was moving, pointing it out to me with his thumb, then he went up three blocks before turning off and heading back towards the rear of it.
The rear was another street but Savario had the key to the building we wanted. He parked the car a block away and we walked down to the office building. He let us in and locked the door behind us. It was like something out of Charles Dickens. The door had a big deadbolt lock on it and it was wooden and high, not like the modern glass doors of North America. Once we were in we were out of sight.
I headed for the stairs but Savario put his hand on my arm. "Ascensore," he said cheerfully, and followed up with what could have been the Italian for "why walk when you can ride." I grinned politely and followed him into the old-fashioned cage.
The owners of the building must have been pretty laid-back about burglary. There was no alarm on the door that led to the roof. But then, why bother when guys like Savario had keys to the front?
I tied our rope in a highwayman's hitch to a ring in the wall, then we let ourselves down the fifteen feet to the roof of the warehouse and I jerked the other end of the rope and it untied and fell into my arms.
The roof of the warehouse had two low risers in it and there was a chimney beside the skylight, readymade for anchoring our rope. We coupled it and waited, nursing the pry bar Savario had brought in his bag, until ten-thirty-eight when we heard the ugly screaming of Carla's diversion out front, right on cue.
Her involvement was the only sensible part of the scheme. It wouldn't have worked if she'd been a man. Somebody would have come to the window and told his fortune for him. But Italians could give me pointers on chauvinism. They wouldn't doubt that she was genuinely looking for something. They expected women to act stupidly. They would come to the window only to explain why she was nuts but they would all come, and they would all listen, trying to get off their one-liners so they could relive them later over their grappa. That's the way I hoped it would work, anyway.
We checked over the top and saw her standing in front of the door, haranguing at the top of her voice. Then a light came on inside and Savario nudged me. We went back to the skylight and quickly pried up one pane of the heavy glass that projected out over the edges of the opening in the roof. It shattered but we had it muffled with a sack so it was only half-volume, only loud enough to waken half the dead.